Wait. Did he mean…? He couldn’t seriously be propositioning her. Oh heavens. The heat.
“No hookups at all.” Not for her. Nopers. Not with a roommate. Especially not with a guy like Brek. A dangerous guy. The kind who made her question her commitment to finding the right guy to settle down with and make babies. Brek was afor nowguy. She didn’t need that in her life.
“Bummer.” He didn’t glance away. He simply held her stare. “Guess I’ll have to hook up on the back of my Harley.”
By golly, she didn’t need to sort out that visual. The logistics involved for intercourse on a motorcycle would certainly require preplanning and a diagram.
“Having sex on the back of a motorcycle is impossible.” She was nearly certain.
His smirk scared the living snot out of her. “Wanna bet?”
Chapter Four
Countdown to Claire & Dean’s Wedding: 7 Weeks
Two of the many benefits to Velma’s apartment complex were the gym and the heated swimming pool. Brekpulled himself from the pool and glanced past the hot tub to the clock. He’d made ample use of both amenities while he settled in at Velma’s place. No one else used the rooftop pool late at night. Not that he minded the quiet. In fact, he preferred it. At least until his mind wandered back to Velma—which it always did.
Velma said she was dating, and that declaration sat on his chest like a fifty-pound dumbbell. Sometimes she didn’t get home until late.
And who the hell was he to play hall monitor to her dating habits? He shook his head.
He had stayed up, listening for her. Most of the time he convinced himself he was just doing his neighborly roommate duty to ensure she made it home alive. But the number of times he ended up stewing alone in the dark over what she was doing with some jackass grated on him.
Montgomery Events kept Brek so busy he hadn’t had time to ask a woman out—not that one had caught his attention. Normally, he didn’t have a problem finding a willing partner. All that had changed the second he’d knocked on Velma’s door. His dick seemed to think she owned it.
His dick was a traitor.
He snagged his towel and headed down the elevator, back to the apartment. Velma wouldn’t be home for a while. He probably had enough time to watch at least two episodes ofTheWalking Deadwhile he put together the invitations for Bride Number Three, also known as Velma’s sister. Although, tying little ribbons and affixing gold stickers wasn’t his idea of a good time. That’s why he’d add zombies to the mix. Zombies made everything better.
He shoved his key in the door and turned the knob. His gut took a hit like it always did when Velma was in the room. The lights were on, and she sat at the table with a girly teacup next to her laptop.
She wore pink flannel pajamas and her fuck-me glasses—the rimless kind that sat high on the bridge of her nose. Every so often her glasses would slip, and she would haphazardly push them back, making her look like a librarian. A sexy librarian who did dirty, dirty things to rebels who returned books late and didn’t pay their fine.
“Hi, Brek.” She glanced up from the light of her computer screen, a sucker stick poking out of the edge of her mouth. She popped the lollipop from between her lips, and his dick stirred to life.Down, boy.A few days ago, he’d found a canister in the back of the pantry filled with all sorts of candy. He’d never seen her enjoy her private stash, but he resolved right then and there to keep it stocked.
“Hey.” Bare-chested, he tugged his towel around his neck and held it at the ends. He couldn’t seem to form a coherent thought, so he evacuated to his room to change into a dry pair of shorts.
With a firm word that his dick needed to behave, he grabbed his post-workout recovery shake from his shelf in the fridge and shook it. Velma had labeled his black mixer bottle with a sticker that readB.
Early on, he had decided to find her love of labels cute. That and the swear jar she’d decorated with multicolored ribbons and placed in the center of the kitchen counter. He had already prepaid by dropping in a hundred-dollar bill. She hadn’t found thatcuteat all. Nope, she threw a tizzy about it. Didn’t matter, though. Her tizzy was fuckin’ adorable.
“You’re home early.”
“Tonight was a bust.” She screwed up her face.
“I need to kick the dude’s ass?” He would take entirely too much joy in beating the jerk to a pulp.
She shook her head without glancing up from the monitor. “No. Claire and Heather already took me out for a post-date ice-cream-infused dissection. You don’t get to flex your caveman muscles on my behalf this time.”
“Bummer.” He moved to stand behind her. “What’re you doin’?”
She pushed the screen closed. “Nothing.”
The way her cheeks burned red told an entirely different story.
“Porn?” The idea of Velma watching anything indecent was laughable—she had a thing for old movies with dudes who sang about being in love.
“No.” Her nose wrinkled.
